


Wreath

by SilberSaber



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Blacksmith!Thorin - Freeform, Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtship, Fic Spans Years, Friends to Lovers, Multi, Shire AU, canon character death, magical amnesia, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 00:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18376838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilberSaber/pseuds/SilberSaber
Summary: Some in the Shire might refer to Bilbo Baggins as odd, but there was really no reason for it. Sure, he might take a bit more after his Tookish side than other folks, and sure, he may know his way around a bow and arrow, but aside from those few things, Bilbo is just like any ordinary hobbit in the Shire....Except of course for the fact that his best friend happens to be a dwarf working as Hobbiton’s newest blacksmith, who seems to have completely forgotten who he is.That, admittedly, is a bit odd.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if by any chance this fic sounds familiar to you, that may be because I had the first 2 chapters originally posted in 2016, but wasn’t able to get back into writing more. I didn’t want to have people waiting on something that may never continue, so I took the original down. After a few years and a couple structural changes to help the story flow a bit better, I’m hoping to get more of this fic done.
> 
> Also, to answer a question I once had, at the start of this story Bilbo is a teen, but nothing romantic happens until he’s well of age.
> 
> :) Enjoy

 

 

 

He awakens with his stomach flat against the damp ground and the taste of soil in his mouth. His eyes open with slow fluttering, only to find himself surrounded by clumps of dried grass and weeds. He pushes himself up, a low groan escaping from his dirt ridden mouth as he rises against the dull pain. His muscles ached, having been sore from the awkward position his limbs had been stuck in for the last few hours, only adding to to bruises and cuts littering his skin.

As he moves his body, a sharp pain spikes at his ankle. He must have twisted it at some point, though he does not recall when. He pulls himself up, careful to mind the swollen ankle, and looks around, finding himself surrounded by trees twisting around one another, blocking out most of the sky with their branches. Based off what little light passed through the thick foliage, the day had turned into evening. Or was it morning?

It dawns on him quite suddenly that he has no memory of this place or how he came to be there. He shifts his gaze around the forest, trying to find some sense of familiarity, and finding none. In the dark, his eyes land on an old, but distinct path through the trees. He makes his way over to the stones, hobbling along as he finds his way back to…

Where had he been going?

As he walks, he tries to recall what he had been doing before he’d woken on the forest floor. He could almost feel his memories, lingering as they were at the back of his mind. The harder he tried to think, the more his thoughts pulled away from him.

Quickening his pace, he feels the shaky beginnings of panic shoot through his veins, threatening to overtake him with every stumbling footfall. He focuses himself on the path in front of him, trying to calm his nerves; it would do him no service to lose himself to fear, he tells himself, sternly grabbing hold of his wits and forcing them to remain. Reasoning said that the path had to lead somewhere, to someone who could help. All he need to do was keep moving forward.

After a few minutes, he finds the light of a clearing in the distances. He hobbles up the path until he’s reached the end of the ticket, gazing out from the webbed greenery. The mangled trees gave way to a small overlook above the hills. The forest below stretched out farther than he could comprehend, encompassing all his eye could see for leagues on end. There was no sight of any villages or encampments. How on Yavanna’s green earth could he have come to this horrid place?

As he looked out, he caught sight of a structure sticking out atop the horizon. His body tensed as he laid eyes on the rocky hills in front of him. Among the jagged landscape lay the ruins of an old fortress composed of blackened stone. Whatever pain he had felt was ignored as a new wash of panic came over him. Though he did not know what that place was, there was something about it that gave him a sense of overwhelming fear.

_Run, run now! Must get away!_

In an instant, he turned his back on the darkened hill and ran, back down the same path he’d come. Deeper and deeper into the shadow of the trees he ran, as fast as his body would allow. He was not sure where he was running to, but some part of himself, deep inside, knew it had to be better than staying where he was.

 

— — — — —

 

Gandalf has to move quickly and quietly as he maneuvers the halls of Dol Guldur. There is no mistaking the shadows whispering through the halls, a darkness rooted from the unspeakable evils of Morgoth.

He had suspected it for a while now that the old fortress had been reoccupied, though not all shared in his worry. The forest had never returned to its glorious days when it bore the name Greenwood, but there had been many years of peace after the enemy had been cast out. Now, so many years later, darkness had crept back between the trees of Mirkwood. The ancient evils of the past had awaken and corrupted the good earth, killing off its previous inhabitants one by one and replacing them with the viler creatures of Arda. Yet, despite all of the signs, the Council had made no move to involve themselves- there was nothing to be done if all they had was a fool’s hunch.

They would need proof, and Gandalf would oblige them.

There’s a lifeless quiet as the wizard walks through the crumbling halls, unnatural even for a place occupied by such evil. Something lays hidden among these shadows, waiting with an impatience that pressed dangerously upon the living.

Gandalf speaks a charm, his staff hitting the ground with a resounding thud. The soft light of the spell flutters against the walls, revealing whatever secrets lie between the ruined columns. He continues his search, stopping every minute or so recast the spell, though nothing yet makes itself known to him.

A narrow flight of stairs leads him into a small corridor at the edge of one of the many towers. A quick look around confirms that he’s stumbled upon the prison, the walls lined with metal cages, rusty and still occupied with the bones of past prisoners.

As he nears the end of the flight, something catches his eye. There, third to last, was a cage that no longer hung from the chains that fell from the stone ceilings, but, instead lay fallen on the ground. Gandalf walks over to the cage, inspecting it. His fingers brush over the remains of a rusted lock which left the door free to open. As he scans the surrounding area, the wizard notes the cage nearby, while still hanging, sported a broken lock.

The sound of crumbling stone quickly pulls him from his thoughts. He makes to guard himself, holding his staff tightly, but something heavy rams into him from above. He fall to the ground for but a moment, turning quickly to find the attacker. A small, hunched figure scrambles away before he gets a decent look. He shoots up to his feet, chasing the snarling creature as it made its way through the dark halls.

He follows through the maze that was the fortress’ dungeons when he’s jumped upon once again, the creature having managed to sneak up on him from behind. This time, he is well prepared. He slams his staff into the creature’s chest, throwing it far against the wall.

Before the creature has time to find its senses, the wizard pins it to the ground with his strongest grip. Through the tangled mess of hair, he finds a wrinkled face twisted in pain and fear. With the creature pinned beneath him, he can clearly recognize its form; it is not any orc or goblin, but a dwarf. He moves his hand to the dwarf’s head and gives a hard press, murmuring the words of a charm, willing the dwarf to break through whatever madness has taken hold. After a few moments, the dwarf begins to still and his snarling turns to heavy breathing.

Gandalf looks over the dwarf in his grasp, searching for anything he could identify. There are none of the usual adornments dwarves so often adorned themselves in. The rough chops of hair indicated that whatever beads the dwarf had once worn had been cut from their braids. White lines scarred the skin of the dwarf’s face, no doubt caused by piercings having been ripped out. Only the faded remains of a tattoo that covered the dwarf’s face would provide any identification, but there had been far too many in the wizard’s memory to a apply a name to the face.

After a moment of quiet, the dwarf begins to rasp. “Please…”

Gandalf loosens his hold of the dwarf, leaning forward. “What is your name?”

The dwarf stares back at him, his face twisted in confusion. “I can’t,” he says, shaking his head, ”I can’t remember.” He stops again, concentrating on his thoughts. “My… my son. My son?”

“I do not know of your son, my friend,” Gandalf says, thinking back to the dislodged cages. “He was here with you? He escaped?”

The dwarf murmurs in distant thought. “I… I don’t…I had a son.”

“Please, I do not know your of son, what is-”

“War,” the dwarf starts again, taking a deep breathe before continuing,“...we were at war.” His eyes widen in fearful memory. “The Defiler. He took it.”

That is a name the wizard recognizes. Many had heard the tales of dwarves and their battle for Moria. Azog, who had led the orc army, had been defeated, though there had been no more victories that day. Gandalf doubted that the orc had any part in this, as the battle had come and gone so long ago, but it offered a clue as to where this dwarf was from.

“What did he take?” he asks.

The dwarf slowly lifts his arm and unfurls his hand, revealing a missing finger, but says nothing else. Whatever had been taken, the thief had been quite eager to possess it. “It was-”

Before the dwarf can continue, the familiar screech of an orc echos through the halls.

“Come with me.” Gandalf pulls the dwarf to his feet, met with resistance.

“Wait, please. My son…” The dwarf is frantic again.

“You will see him again, my friend,” Gandalf says as he tries to shepherd the dwarf along the halls. “But now, we must leave.”

In a sudden fit of rage, the dwarf thrashes against the wizard, protesting too loudly for his liking.

“The serpents!” He points wildly towards the wall behind him. Gandalf turn to see the multitude of vines creeping along the stone. “They will stop you, they will not let you leave! There is no way out!”

The vines remain as dormant as before. Gandalf turns back to the manic dwarf. “It is but an illusion,” he says, giving the wall a tap with the end of his staff. “Nothing more.”

The dwarf’s face slackens once again, as whatever horrors he had been seeing were suddenly gone. What had been done to this poor creature to have him in such a state? This foe could not just be a few measly orcs swarming an abandoned fortress. There was something more, something darker, lurking in the shadows.

With the dwarf disillusioned and calm once again, they begin their descent through the passageways. Gandalf considers his new companion. Whoever this dwarf is, he must have had some standing, though he seems not to know he belonged to it. If he could bring him to Imladris and have Elrond see to him, there might be a chance that the elf could tell them what had happened, and, one could hope, convince the Council to take action.

Yet, before they find themselves to the bridge leading out towards the forest, a deafening chorus of shrieks pierce through the air. The orc pack must have gotten scent of them, somehow managing to surround them while they were unaware; Gandalf pulls the dwarf back as the foul creatures erupt from behind the broken walls. He focuses on each orc as they surge upon them, batting them back with a hard strike of his staff. For every successful blow to his enemies, there were only more pouring out from the ruins.

Suddenly, a pained cry rang out among the masses, one that Gandalf realized belonged to the dwarf. In the onslaught, he had been unable to keep his hold over his companion, losing him to the crowd.

Gandalf concentrates hard and thrusts his staff into the swarm, the white light pushing back against the dark crowd and clearing a path as his foes crumble to the floor. In the clearing, finds the figure of the dwarf lying, motionless, on the ground. Running through, he grabs hold of the dwarf and throws him across his shoulder. He makes his way across the bridge and into the forest, trying to ignore the warm wetness that blooms against his chest.

Once they have enough distance from the fortress, Gandalf stops and lays the dwarf down. His fears are confirmed as he finds the dwarf’s wrappings red with blood. In the fray, a ragged gash had sliced its way over the dwarf’s chest. The dwarf yet managed to stay alive, though just barely.

“Take…please take this,” the dwarf sputters as blood fills his mouth. He hold an object to wizard, one wrapped in yellowed parchment. “Give it to my son...please.”

“You can do so when you see him,” Gandalf says, trying to keep the dwarf calm. If he could close the wound in time…

“It too late,” he rasps, losing what little voice he has left. “Too…late.” The last words gurgle through the blood as the dwarf slumps in the wizard’s arms. The lights of his eyes fade away.

Gandalf curses as the he lays the dwarf’s body against the ground. He must to get back to the Council and tell them of his findings. There was no way to deny the signs. Orc packs-no, legions, as they had grown so high in number, did not just appear out of the thin air. Something was calling them to action, but for what he did not know.

He pulls the small body into his cloak, wrapping it tightly. He would give this dwarf a proper burial, once he had escaped the fray. As he prepares the body, he removes the package from the dwarf’s hand. The object inside is thin, yet quite heavy. He unfurls the parchment to reveal a key with a rather oddly shaped lock. Before he could wonder about the key’s door, he notices that there was writing on the inside of the parchment. As he smooths it out, he recognizes it as a map, one with a very specific location.

_The Lonely Mountain. Erebor._

The sound of orcs and wargs pulls Gandalf out of his thoughts. The time will come for him to muse over the discoveries made this day, but now he must flee. Hauling the body over his shoulder and pocketing his find, he dashes through the trees as he makes to his horse once again.

 

 

 


	2. Mayflower

 

 

 

Bilbo awakens to the sound of birds chirping and the sizzling of fire. The dewy, morning air cools his skin where it peeks out from his blanket. He pulls the cloth further to his chest and curls into the soft padding of his bed roll.

His mother’s gentle voice calls to him from a few feet away. “Bilbo, darling, it’s time to get up. Come over for breakfast, please.”

The savory smell of cooked eggs wafts through his nose. The scent is tempting, but warmth of his bedroll is just too good to leave behind.

“We have a long day ahead of us. You need to get up now, please.” Her voice is more stern this time. Perhaps if he let out a snore, she’d think he was still asleep.

“Bilbo Baggins, I did not wake up early to make your breakfast just to have you sleep in! You get up this instant!”

He lets out a low groan before throwing off the blanket. After a quick stretch, he stand to his feet and quickly made his way over to the warmth of the fire at the center of their camp. His mother shoves a plate with a perfectly fried eggs and tomatoes into his hands, giving him a hard stare.

“Now you stop that,” she says, catching the annoyed look on his face. “If you want to sleep in a nice bed tonight, you’ll eat your food and get ready to leave, like I ask.”

“Yes mum,” he mumbles, cutting into the tomato with a fork. His eyes are heavy with the little sleep he’d gotten last night, the sounds of hooting owls and clicking insects keeping him awake. He wasn’t made for camping, that he was most sure of.

A few minutes into his meal, his father arrives from the thicket with a bundle of wild berries that he passes out. It was not one of the best breakfasts he’d had in his life, but it tasted better than any meal they’d had over the last couple of days.

“How long till we reach Bree, mum?” he asks, taking another bite from his tomato.

“Well, now that we’re all up, I’d say we’ll be there in time for dinner.” She places a handful of the red berries on her plate and began mashing them into a jam with her fork. “Though I think it’d be best if we skipped afternoon tea.”

At that her husband and son both whine.

“Again?” his father asks with a pout.

“Yes, again,” she huffs, making a point of not looking from where she busied her hands. ”It takes too long to set up a fire to get the water boiling and I’d like to get to the inn while there’s still sunlight.”

He turns back to his food. “Well, it’s just not proper,” he grumbles, and his mother rolls her eyes.

“That’s the way of the road for you, my dears. Now quit your whining, ‘else we’ll be skipping second breakfast as well.” With that, there was not so much as a peep from either of her boys for the rest of the morning.

  


Visiting Bree had not been something Bilbo was keen on, nor his father for that matter. Though he had never been there himself, Bilbo had heard his fair share of the place and felt no need to to see any of it. The village was home to more men than hobbits, crowding the streets with their tall, imposing figures. Then there was getting there, a week’s journey by foot through fields and wood. Why spend so much energy for a few markets when there were perfectly fine wears to be found in Hobbiton? It was nonsensible.

But Bilbo’s mother is a Took, and if there was one thing every hobbit knew about Tooks, it was that they knew nothing of sensibility. Their strange attraction to the wilder world beyond the Shire called to them, and once that need took hold of their hearts, there was stopping them from making the move. So, when a letter from an old friend from Breeland arrived at Bag End bringing news of her expecting a second child, Belladonna Took decided she absolutely had to go and visit.

She’d offered to go alone at first, something his father had immediately objected to. Of course, if they were to go, then Bilbo was expected to join them as well. Though he insisted he was well old enough to stay in the Shire on his own, they would hear nothing of it. And so, despite a great deal of complaining on his part, he found himself accompanying them on their trek through the wilderness (...or as his mother called it, a pleasant walk.).

Despite his mother’s insistence that they would have to hurry, the three of them managed to reach the village gates well before dark. Bree was very different from any village in the Shire. The houses were tightly packed together, with rooms stacked on top one another instead of being spread out under the land. Even with the massive size of everything, Bilbo felt himself feeling cramped by the closeness, the large crowds of tall folk passing through the narrow streets only making him feel even smaller.

Trying to keep up with his parents was enough to make him dizzy. The market in Hobbiton was never as busy as the shops in Bree, especially not at this time of day when every hobbit of respectability knew to be inside and preparing for dinner. He couldn’t believe that there would even be shops open this late. The sheer number was almost overwhelming. Everywhere his eyes wandered, there seemed to be a shop with its own unique wares. Each time something caught his attention, his mother would have to pull him away.

“You’ll have plenty of time to browse tomorrow,” she’d say, and then guide them both further down the winding streets.

“The thing about these larger villages, lad, is that they get all these strangers coming ‘round and think they can trick them out of a few coin,” his father says once they’ve escaped the crowds and neared the inn. ”But not this old hobbit, no sir. Us Bagginses are too clever for such things. When we come back tomorrow, I’ll show you how to haggle the way a proper Baggins does.”

Watching his father try to get out of paying couple pennies wasn’t exactly something Bilbo considered exciting. It hardly mattered whether the price was lowered or not. They had more than enough money to make expensive purchases. It was the small victory of winning the smaller price that made Bungo’s face light up with pride, which might have been fine if it wasn’t obvious that the prices were still way too high, even after being lowered. The thought alone of some shopkeeper’s smug face as his father preened over his slightly-less-overpriced goods was enough to make Bilbo wither a little inside, a whole day of it was going to be hell.

Once the family found themselves at the Prancing Pony, they settle in to their room, discussing the days to come.

“Did anything in the shops pique your interest, lad?” his father asks.

Bilbo thinks back on the rows of shops lining the streets. They’d been in such a hurry that there had been no time for his to really look at anything. Yet there had been something that caught his attention when they’d passed by the smithy.

“Maybe some new tools for the garden?” His father had begun teaching him how to garden since he had gotten too old to attend classes. He never cared much for it, but he knew it made his him happy, and it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do these days.

His father nods his head in approval. “A very reasonable purchase. I’ll be sure to add it to the list.”

“While you’re out, find something for Petunia and Lugo as well,” his mother added. “Perhaps a new blanket for the baby?”

“Noted.” His father finishes his shopping list with a satisfied smile. “With that, we’ll have plenty left over to get a few bottles of wine.”

His mother sighs. “Do we really need more wine? You have two dozen bottles already, and you haven’t even touched them.”

“You can’t just drink wine when you get it, mum,” Bilbo says. “It’s gotta sit for a few years before it’s any good.” He laid down on the small bed and pulled the warm covers over his body. I felt nice having something soft to sleep on after weeks of relying on a thin sleeping roll.

“See, Bilbo knows. It’s the only proper way to drink wine.”

“Well it tastes no different, regardless.”

“Maybe your senses have dulled, but mine are quite sensitive, and there is a very distinct difference.”

“No, you just think there are differences where there aren’t. It’s same with Longbottom leaf and Tighfield weed. Exactly the same.”

“They are most definitely _not_ the same. We’ve discussed this before.”

Bilbo groaned and pulled his pillow over his head as he wills himself to stop the bickering from reaching his ears.

 

— — — — —

 

After a much needed morning of sleeping in, and a fairly satisfying second breakfast, Bilbo and his father headed out into the town. His mother had never been quite as interested shopping as they had, and decided to spend the day exploring the land outside the town.

Their first goal for the day was to find a gift for the Tunnely’s, who would be hosting them for dinner the next day. It didn’t take long before they settled on a plush, quilted blanket. His father, as promised, managed to get the price lowered by a few coin, and Bilbo could only return his pleased grinning with his own deadpan.

With their task completed, the pair began their search for proper gardening tools, eventually reaching a smith stand. They quickly found one of the stalls stocked with all sorts of spades and weeders. While they were nicely crafted, there was a problem with the size. The tools were large, meant for taller folk with a bigger grip. With his hardest grasp on the metal handle, Bilbo could barely lift the weeding fork off of the counter.

When it was clear that all of the tools were too heavy, the two inquired the shopkeeper about any tools made for their size.

“If yer lookin’ fer anything smaller, there’s a dwarf smith down the way,” the shopkeeper said as he pointed down the row. “Tha’ had be yer best bet.”

His father pursed his lips as he considered the new option. “I see, thank you for the suggestion. Good day to you.”

The hobbits walked back to the street and Bilbo turned to head toward where the smith had directed them before realizing his father was not following him.

“Well, let’s try to find another smith shall we,” he said walking in the opposite direction, much to Bilbo’s confusion.

“Didn’t he say there was a dwarf down that way?”

His father shakes his head. “I’d rather not resort to such things. Dwarves are a rather greedy folk, and I wouldn’t want to waste our money.” He gives his son a pat on the shoulder, guiding him up the street. “Come along. There’s bound to be other smiths that have wares for us smaller folks.”

Truth be told, Bilbo was rather intrigued with meeting this smith. He’d never seen a dwarf before, their kind rarely venturing beyond the few villages nestled in the hills. Alas, if his father said it wasn't worth it, then it wasn't so. He knew his way about business after all.

The hobbits continued on through the line of shops, stopping at every smith they could. Again and again they had the same problem, and always the smith would point them the same way.

By the fifth stop, his father finally seemed to give up. “Are you telling me that in this entire damn village there’s only one smith that makes tools for hobbits?”

The smith shrugged. “Dinna what ta tell ye. One seems ta be ‘nough for you lot,” he said and left to speak with another shopper.

Closing his eyes, his father sighs in defeat. “Sounds like we don’t have much of a choice then,” he mutters, turning back down the row. “Alright, lad, let’s see if we can get you some tools.”

Following the smiths’ directions, the hobbits find themselves at the end of the street. It's much less crowded, with mostly houses and the occasional stand. Yet somehow despite the barrenness, there's no sign of any smith shop to be found.

“Well, where is it then?” Bilbo asks.

“If I knew I’d have told you,” his father replied.

“I wasn’t actually asking,” Bilbo says, annoyed.

“Oh, I know. Don’t get so uppity, lad,” he chuckled and mussed Bilbo’s hair.

As Bilbo slaps his father’s hand away, he spots something ahead of them.

“You think that’s it over there?”

Tucked between the buildings is a small, stone cottage. The walls are high enough to accommodate smaller folk, but not a full grown man.

“Ah, perhaps it is. Let’s give it a look, shall we?”

As they walk through the small alleyway, they can see the various metal works displayed through the shop’s open windows. The inside of the shop is dark, and musky with the smell of old wood, empty aside from the two hobbits.

His father calls out a quick ‘hello’, but to no answer. “Well, go on and start looking,” he says, heading out of the shop. “I’ll go round back and see if I can find him.”

As he disappears out the door, Bilbo looks around the small hut. The stone walls are lined with shelves, covered with various metal works ranging from cutlery to hardware. Tin buckets at the ends of the shelves are filled with nails, screws and other small bits.

He releases a small sigh as he continues his walk through the mess, trying to find anything that resembles gardening tools. He might have referred to the shop’s organization as terrible, if there was any organization to begin with. It reminds him of the old antique shop in Hobbiton, which he supposes has some charm to it, though the charm is overshadowed by the overall creepiness of the space.

As he make his way through the rows, the glint of something sharp caught his eye. At the end of the last row is a wall covered in short swords and daggers. The polished silver blades shine brightly in the slivers of light that shone through the door. The hilts range from woods to metals, and some of them were embellished with gemstones.

“How may I be of service?”

Bilbo can’t help the undignified yelp that breaks free before turning to find what must to be the shop’s owner standing behind him, nearly two heads taller than himself.

From what Bilbo had heard about dwarves, he had expected to find him covered in piercings and with long hair and beard filled with braids and jewels. While his hair is indeed long, the only decoration in this dwarf’s dark locks was the occasional strand of silver that betrayed his older age. His chin sports a short beard that was loosely braided towards the end and held together with a leather clasp. The only metal he wore were a pair of simple iron clasps on each ear and a circlet on his wrist.

It was disappointingly plain, though the feeling was easily overtaken by dread. He’d also been told that they were known for being stonefaced, but this one most certainly had an expression, and it was not friendly.

“Oh good, we were looking for you.”

Bilbo feels the wash of relief as his father stepped back into the shop.

“Good day, Master Dwarf. Me and my son were just passing through and we saw your shop. Though just barely, you know. You might want to consider putting up a sign or something. I mean we’ve walked this street a couple times today and no idea what this place-“

“Did you need something?” the dwarf cuts him off, clearly not one for small talk.

“We were wondering if you had any garden tools.”

“Over on that wall,” the smith replies, nodding to the opposite side of the stall before walking over to the counter at the back of the shop.

They mutter a small thanks and walk over to where tin buckets filled with tools hang from the wall. Bilbo pulls one of the trowels from the bucket. The wooden handle fits perfectly in his hand, much lighter than he thought it would have be. The smith’s iron stamp is embossed on the bottom of the shaft, an oak tree encircled by dwarvish runes.

“They’re very nice,” he says, walking over to the smith and placing it on the small counter. “And so light.”

“The metal is dwarvish iron, cored from mines of the Blue Mountains,” he says with a proud voice. ”It’s lighter than other iron, and tougher. It won’t rust for many years.”

Father picks up the trowel, examining the handle with shrewd eyes. “And this wood, this is pine, yes?” The smith nods. “Do you have any made with different wood?”

“Those already made are all crafted with pine. If you would prefer it, I could make new ones with a different wood.”

Father considers the offer. ”What other woods do you have?”

“I can work with oak, linden and aulnut.” He reaches below the stand and pulls out three blocks of wood. The first two were pale in colour, which was lovely, but not entirely useful when dealing with dirt covered hands. The third was a rich brown and filled with figured lines that made it look almost like water.

“I like this one,” Bilbo says, pointing to the the block.

“That one’s the aulnut. It’s the most durable of the woods, very strong.”

Father picks up the block, nodding in approval. “If you speak the truth, then I’ll be set for the rest of my years. Why don’t we go on and make it a whole set,” he says, giving Bilbo a smile. “My old shears could barely cut through a weed anyways.”

“I’ll get started as soon as I’m able,” the smith says, writing the order down on a piece of parchment.

His father dug into his bag to find his wallet. Once again, it was time to haggle for a good price. Bilbo caught the giddy look his father gave him and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

“So, how much will it be, then?” he asks as he rummages through his coin purse.

“Twenty silver coin for the whole set.”

Father looks at the dwarf, mouth agape. “Twenty silver? For a couple of tools?”

“You doubt the quality of my work?” the smith asks, arms crossed and expression dark. Father’s eyes widened at the dwarf’s unimpressed tone, as if suddenly calculating the smith’s strength in relation to his own.

“Well, n-no. No, of course not. They are most impressive, Master Dwarf,” he stammers, trying to find the right words. “It’s just… well, since we’d be buying the set, I figured maybe you would have a better deal. How does fifteen silver sound?”

“No,” the smith replies, all too quickly.

“Sixteen?”

“Twenty silver is what the set is priced at, Master Hobbit, and no lower.”

Father gives the dwarf a hard stare before sighing in defeat. “Well then, twenty silver it is,” he says, voice tight, and pulls the coins from his purse. “We’ll be back at the end of the week to pick them up,” he said, holding out the coin, but the dwarf made no move to take it.

“If you wish the set to be finished by then, it’ll be three more silver.”

Father sputters again. “Now really, I must put my foot down, Master Dwarf. Twenty was already quite a bit of coin.”

“Aulnut takes time to carve. I’ll need to make time to work, which means pushing back everything else.”

“But surely-“

 “What I offer is the fairest price. You can either take it or leave,” the dwarf says, voice edging on that of a growl. “You are not my only customer and I will not waste my time on you.”

Bilbo could see the tightness in his father’s face. It was rather ridiculous that the hobbit couldn’t bear to part with a few coins. It wasn’t as though they couldn’t afford it. And his mother would be most unhappy if his silliness earned him a punch to the face.

“Da’ just give him the money.”

His father looks back to him, catching the worry on his face, then sighs. He pulls three more silver pieces from his purse and bitterly dropped the coins onto the counter.

“We see you at the end of the week,” he says, yanking the order slip from the dwarf’s hands.

“May your stay be ever prosperous,” the dwarf calls out as he stalks back into the shop’s rear. ”...and may your generosity stretch further than your claws.”

That stops his father in his tracks, just a foot out the doorway. Bilbo cringes, seeing his father turning to yell something back, and grabbing his arm to pull him away.

“Just keep walking da’.”

“Did you hear him?! Claws he says!” he blusters, stout body tensed in outrage as he follows Bilbo’s guiding hands and out of the hut. “I pay the bastard twenty three silver for the bloody tools and he calls me a dragon.”

“Well, to be fair, you were playing it cheap.”

Bungo harrumphed. “Still… pot-kettle,” he grumbles.

  


Their walk back to the inn was mostly silent, save for father’s angry muttering. When they finally find themselves back, mother was already heating the kettle.

“How was your day, my dears?”

“Da’ almost got into a fight with a dwarve over gardening tools,” Bilbo says, setting his satchel down and sitting on the small bed.

His mother looks up from the fire with a surprised look on her face. “Well, isn’t that exciting.”

“He charged me twenty whole silver coins for the set. And then he goes and raises it another three! And even after I’ve paid him, he goes and calls me cheap. It was only natural that I try for a better price, the stubborn sunnuva-,“ he stops himself short, glancing over at Bilbo, who only rolls his eyes. He might not yet be an adult but that did not make him a damn fauntling.

Face red and shaking his head, he continued. “That idiot dwarf made such a deal over a little haggling, you’d think he’d never ran a business before. Any proper shopkeep would laugh at how poor his conduct was.”

His mother cocks an eyebrow. “You said all that?”

Father’s nose twitches. “Well… no. But I was thinking it.”

Mother hums, an amused smile growing on her face. “I see. Told him off with your eyes, did you?”

“Exactly! And what a fierce look it was.” He sits down on the other side of her. “You should consider yourself lucky you weren’t there. Might have decided to leave and never return.”

“My, what a fearsome hobbit you are,” she chuckles, pulling her husband in for a quick kiss. Bilbo gags at the wet noise as their lips parted and his mother laughs. “I’m sorry, darling, I forgot we had a youngling in our company.”

Bilbo glares at her as she pulls him to her chest and ruffles his hair. “When the day comes that I have someone for myself, I’ll make sure to always snog them right in front of you. See how you like it.”

“Well now, that doesn’t sound to bad. It’ll be nice to see my baby finally getting onto the the playing field.”

“Now don’t you be rushing him, Bella. I don’t want our son playing anything till he, um, understands how to play.” His father had whispered the last part into his wife’s ear, but was rather unsuccessful as Bilbo had heard everything. He closes his eyes and prayed to Yavanna that his father wasn’t planning on giving him ‘the talk’ again.

“Don’t worry, dearest. You know our Bilbo’s a shy one,”she says, giving her son a gentle pat on the cheek. “It’ll be years before we have to worry about him finding someone to play with...or giving us grandchildren.”

Bilbo saw the gleeful look on his mother’s face and knew right then that he had made a horrible mistake. He could see she was already plotting how she was going to find a way to set him up with someone.

This was truly an awful adventure indeed.

 

— — — — —

 

The underground of Breeland was in no way the perfect place for one to build a smial. The trees were old and their roots long and thick. Excavating into the ground was much harder than in the softer hills of the Shire. Despite this, the hobbits of Bree managed to work well with the land they had and the results ranged from ‘fair enough’ to completely breathtaking. The Tunnely’s smial was no exception. The walls and ceiling were covered in roots that had been twisted and cut into swirling designs. At the dome of the living room, the roots were curled into the shape of flower petals. The stringier ends of the roots hung down with small candle holder tied to the tips.

“Care to join us, Bilbo?”

The sound of his name pulls Bilbo from his thoughts. He catches his mother’s disapproving look, the one she made whenever he spaces out. She sits in a chair adjacent to Petunia Tunnely while Bilbo sits next to Pearla on the sofa. Pearla was the Tunnely’s daughter and only a couple of years younger than himself. In the hour since they arrived, Bilbo had barely spoken a word to her, but when he did her face would turn a rosey pink.

“So Bilbo, how’s the traveling life been for you?” Petunia asks. “You seem to be taking to it better than your father did on his first journey.”

“Oh, he’s been much better,” his mother replies, giving him a small smile. “I expected there to a lot more whining from him, but it seems he’s taken to it a lot faster than Bungo did.”

 “Is it true then? Have you been enjoying yourself?”

“It’s been alright I suppose,” Bilbo replies.

“I’ve yet to make a proper Took of him,” mother chuckles,”...but that spark will light in time.”

Bilbo gives her a small smile, not wanting to disappoint her. He doubts he’ll ever understand her love for this world, a pity he’ll never find comfort in something so grand.

“Well, I’d say it’s a good time for tea.” Petunia stands from her chair slowly and waddles to the kitchen. “I’ll get the sweets. Pearla why don’t you get the tea for them.”

“Is chamomile alright,” Pearla asks in her quiet voice.

Bilbo nods and mutters a small thanks, causing the lass to blush. He tries to keep himself from blushing with embarrassment as he catches his mother smirking at the little exchange.

As Pearla follows her mother to the kitchen, she moves over to the cushion next to him on the couch. “Looks like I won’t have to wait as long as I thought,” she teases in a low voice.

“Mum, no,” Bilbo whines, head falling into his hands. She chuckles, then straightens herself as Pearla returns with a full pot. Petunia follows closely behind, carrying a tray of biscuits above her rounded belly. She calls ‘tea time’ and his father and Lugo soon shuffle in.

“Thanks again for the blanket, it’s quite lovely,” Petunia says as his father sits down. He gives her a small nod in return and grabs one of the biscuits, taking a bite.

“It’ll do us good for the next few years with all these changes,” Lugo says, taking a seat next to his wife.

“What do mean by that?” mother asks as she sips her tea.

“Well now, you can’t say you haven’t felt it? The last few winters have been getting quite cold.”

“Cold and long,” Petunia adds. “We’ll probably be getting quite the frost sometime soon.”

“Might be a good change of pace. The Shire never gets that much snow, even in our harsher years.”

“Well it might sound fun to you, but it’s hell for us East of the Brandywine,” Lugo says, shaking his head. “We have wolves in these forests, and when the smaller game burrow down for the winter, they start hunting bigger things, like us. Had some of our neighbors nearly killed by a wolf just last winter. They weren’t even outside, it broke the door down and got inside.”

Bilbo had never seen a wolf before, but there had been drawings of some in his mother’s books. The thought of a creature like that breaking through the doors of Bag End sends a shudder through his body.

“We haven’t got to worry ‘bout anything like that,” he continues. “We had the smith come over and give us a strong new door lock just last month.”

“It wasn’t that awful dwarf was it,” his father asks. “The one with the shop that looks like it was sacked years ago?”

Petunia chuckles at that. “Aye, that’d be Master Ered.”

“Came to Bree ‘bout five years ago, I think. Good timing too. The last smith that did work for our size died ten years back. We’d been without a proper smith, the tall folk always make everything too damn big. And then he came and fixed everything up, he did. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Master Ered’s work would have put our old smith to shame.”

“So, he’s got himself a reputation,” father replies, unimpressed. “Didn’t seem all that wonderful to me. Pinned him as your average greedy, mudfaced dwarf.”

“Oh make no mistake, the fellow’s a complete arse, but he’s good at what he does,” Lugo chuckles. “I’d say whatever you’re getting is probably worth the investment."

Father hums. “Well, that’s good to know,” he says, taking another bite of the biscuit.

  


It’s nearing suppertime when the trio return to the inn. The pub is bustling with townsfolk, including some familiar faces from the shops, but still they manage to find themselves a table tucked in towards the back.

His father had started talking somewhere along the way, Eru knows what about, and seemed to have distracted himself, leaving him and his mother to talk.

“You haven’t said much today. Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine, mum,” Bilbo says, resting his head against his fist. “Just a little tried, is all, and it wasn’t as if I had anything to say.”

“You usually more talkative, even on your down days,” she says, running a hand through his hair. Then she nudged closer, mouth pulled into a smile. “Or is just when there’s a pretty lass in the room?”

“Oh, please. Enough already.”

“Come on Bilbo. I know you’re more keen on these things than you act. You saw how sweet she was on you.”

“Maybe I did, but that doesn’t mean I was being sweet on her. You need two people for this kind of thing, mum.”

“Well, I think she’d make a great daughter-in-law.”

“Well, then that will be great for the person she marries, won’t it?”

His mother chuckles before taking a long sniff of the air. “Smells like it’s rabbit tonight.” She places a hand on her husband’s shoulder, finally ending his rambling. “Get us some food, will you, dear?”

Father nods, making to get up from his seat, but freezes as something catches his eye. Immediately, the hobbit falls to the floor, nearly hitting his head against the table as he hides beneath it.

“What are you doing,” Mother asks, peering down at her husband.

“He’s here,” he hisses back.

After pausing and receiving no further explanation, she asks,“Who’s here, darling?”

“The dwarf. The one we bought the tools from. He’s right at the table up front.”

The two hobbits look over to the table towards the middle of the pub and indeed find Master Ered hunched over a bowl of food.

She turns back to her husband. “And?”

“Didn’t you see where he was sitting? He’s right in front of everything.”

She rolls her eyes. “And?” she asks again.

“And?! Well I can’t just walk up there. What if he saw me? It’d be so terribly awkward.”

She sighs before turning to Bilbo, shoving the coins into his hands.

“Go up and get us some food then.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen, looking at the coins in his hand and back to her. “Me?”

His mother gives him an annoyed look. “Now don’t tell me you’re afraid of him too.”

“I’m not afraid, I’d just rather avoid confrontation,” his father protests weakly.

“Oh please, you’re hiding under a table, for goodness sake.” She turns to Bilbo and gives him a small push towards the bar. “Just go up there. It’ll be fine,” she says before turning back to her cowering husband.

Bilbo glances at the money in his hands, then to the table where the smith sat. The dwarf didn’t seem to be interested in anything beyond the food in front of him. If he was quick, Bilbo could walk to the bar without being noticed.

He ducks behind one of the beams, peeking his head out. The smith hadn’t looked up from his meal yet. All was well.

He takes a few tentative steps before rushing over to the next beam. He pauses again, before peeking around the corner. Again, nothing. He watches for moment, before slinking out into the crowd. As he nears the next group of tables, he sees the dwarf lift his head. In an instant, he throws himself down beneath one of the tables.

From his spot on the ground, Bilbo watches the dwarf pass a glance across the room. Had he seen him? Maybe he was just watching the crowd, seeing he didn’t have any company.

A low grunt from above draws his attention. In his excitement, he hadn’t realized that he’d thrown himself right onto some man’s feet. Said man was currently looking down at him from his chair, face a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

“Sorry,” Bilbo says in between nervous chuckles, and quickly lifts himself up. He backs away from the table, taking one last look at the dwarf, who had gone back to eating.

Taking a few more hurried steps, Bilbo releases out a sigh as he finally reaches the bar. He orders the three meals from the barkeep, handing over the coins. As he waits, he takes another look at the dwarf, noticing he was nearing the end of his meal.

He snickers quietly to himself at how ridiculous he feels, worrying about being noticed. It wasn’t as though the smith was out to get him. If anything, had he been spotted, he would probably avoid him as well.

Soon enough the barkeep returns with three bowls of stew, placing them on the counter before returning to the other customers.

As soon he’d left Bilbo realized he had a problem. The bowls were massive, and he could barely hold one in each hand. Getting three across the crowded room was going to be a challenge.

Lifting the first bowl, he steadies his arm and picks up the next one. He tries placing the second bowl in the crook of his elbow, but he can’t manage to keep it upright, a little bit of stew sloshing over the side. After a few tries, he finally manages to balance the bowl in his arm and picks up the third with his remaining hand.

He hadn’t even started walking and already his arms were shaking under the weight. Letting out a frustrated whine, he began to move.

As it was, his hard work amounted to nothing as he turns and immediately slams into something hard. His vest and shirt are splashed with stew as the dishes crash to the ground.

He lets out a surprised yelp at the hot liquid soaking his clothes, accompanied by the grunt coming from the person he’d ran into.

Looking up, his body goes still as stone as he realizes just who he had spilled his food on.

Bilbo wants to apologize, but can’t find his voice as he watches the increasingly disgruntled dwarf wiping the soup and chunks of meat from his coat.

“I-I’m.. that is,” Bilbo stammers before snapping out of his shock. “I am so sorry sir, oh bless me. Here let me just…” Bilbo pulls his handkerchief from his waistcoat, but a large hand catches his wrist first.

“It’s fine,” the dwarf mutters, flicking the soup off his wet hands, and then dropping the hobbit’s arm.

Bilbo sighs in relief as he leans over to pick up the spilled dishes. The smith doesn’t seem too angry with him, even kneels down to pick up one of the bowls.

“You alright, lad?” he asks.

“Yeah, I just-”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Bilbo recognizes his father’s voice among the crowd. He looks up to find both of his parents standing above them, surprised to see them here. They hadn’t seemed to attracted many onlookers and the crash hadn’t been loud enough to hear over the noise. How did they-

Oh.

The small, amused smile edging its way onto his mother’s face confirms his suspicions. He hold back a blush as he realizes they must have been watching him sneaking about, balancing the bowls. Oh, he’d never hear the end of it from her.

“What I’m doing is helping your son pick up the dishes he dropped,” the dwarf growls, voice brimming with restraint.

Father scoffs. “And whose fault is that? You pushed him, I saw you do it.”

“Da’, it wasn’t his fault,” Bilbo says, but his father didn’t seem to hear him.

“What problem is it you have with us, dwarf? Are our misdeeds so grave that you-”

Before he could finish, the dwarf stood, dishes forgotten. “What problem do _you_ have with _me_ , melekun?”

As the dwarf takes a another step closer, father throws his arms up, hands balled into fists. “Now, look, I like to think m’self a sensible hobbit, but I will settle this, by any means.”

“Darling, this hardly necessary,” mother says, tugging her husband’s shoulder. 

“Don’t interfere, Bella. I can handle this,” he replies, although the lilt in his voice wasn’t reassuring. She sighs, hiding her eyes with her hand, Bilbo did much the same. He tightens his fists, the fear plain in his eyes. “Right, let’s get this all squared up, shall we.”

The dwarf does not, in fact, square up. Instead, he looks the hobbit once over, then scoffs before pushing past him, walking out of the inn and leaving him frozen in place.

After a moment, mother gives him a light tap on the shoulder. “Are we all settled now?”

He gives her a tight nod and drops his shaking arms. “I think I’ll… go to bed a little early tonight.”

“That sounds like a fine idea,” she says, giving him a pat on the back.

Without another word, he wobbles over to the stairs and headed up to their room.

“At least he didn’t faint,” she says, pulling Bilbo to his feet. She chuckles at the sight of her son trying to wipe himself off. The stew had cooled down, leaving his arms and chest cold and sticky. She pulls out her own handkerchief and wipes a stray bit of food from his cheek. “That was quite the show you put on, back there.”

Bilbo yanks the handkerchief from her, wiping his face on his own. “So you _were_ watching.”

“Of course we were watching. You were taking forever, had us wondering what you were up to. I will say, you did a good job hiding. He didn’t seem to notice you at all.”

“Thanks,” Bilbo grumbles as he hands the wet cloth back to her. “You know, if either of you had bothered to help me carry the bowls, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“And miss out on watching your father try to fight a dwarf? I’d say it was worth it.”

Despite his efforts, a small smile curls his lips at his mother's words and even he finds himself giggling when she grins back and ruffles his hair fondly. When they finally make their way upstairs, they find his father lying face down in the middle of the hallway, completely dead to the world.

“Guess I spoke too soon,” she sighs. “Grab his leg, will you?”

 

— — — — —

 

The next two days were filled with peace. Bilbo followed his parents through Breeland as his mother showed them her finding of the days before. They returned to the shops every once in awhile, his father’s bag gaining a few extra bottles of wine along the way. They made a point to avoid the end of the line, mother laughing heartily at her husband and son’s skittishness.

Soon, the week had found its end, and the family was packing their belongings for the trip back home in Hobbiton.

“C’mon Bella, just carry it in your bag.”

“My bag is full enough, thank you. Maybe you shouldn’t have bought so much wine if you couldn’t carry it all.”

Father grumbled. As soon as she had her back turned, he stuffs the last bottle in her bag anyways, scanning the room once over. “Well, I think we’re almost set.”

“Are we?” mother asks. “I think you might be forgetting something, dearest,” she says, looking over to Bilbo.

“Oh please, as if I’d forget. I already gave the bastard the coin, he’d better have them done.”

Mother sighs. “Let’s get this over with, shall we.”

“You go get them, I’m not stepping one foot into that sty,” his father says, arms crossed. Before his mother can say otherwise, Bilbo volunteers.

“I can do it,” he says, much to his parents’ surprise. “My stuff’s all packed, I’ll get the tools.”

“By yourself, lad?”

He nods. It was something he’d thought about the last few days. After what had happened at the inn, felt that an apology was owed. It had been his fault after all, and even then the dwarf had been kind enough to help him, only to get yelled at.

“You need any help finding it?” his father asks, although he didn’t seem rather impatient to go with his son.

“I know where it is. I’ll be fine,” he replies, putting on his coat. “I’ll meet you back here when I’m done.”

He walked down the quiet streets, thinking of how he was going to do this. He didn’t _have_ to apologize, it wasn’t as if they would ever see each other again, but he felt it was only fair that he did. He didn’t have anything to offer other than kind words, and the dwarf didn’t seem like he talkative sort, but it would have to do.

Just like before, the shop was empty. This time, however, the repetitive clanking of a hammer against metal led Bilbo to the smith’s whereabouts.

He steps out to the yard behind the shop, where the smith had built his forge. The air is hot from the blazing fire, which was a comfortable change from the cold morning.

The smith stands over an anvil, hammering away at what looked to be a small dagger. Bilbo guesses he’d been working away for awhile now, given the tension of his overworked muscles and the wetness of his shirt and hair. Sweat beaded against the skin of his forehead, building into drops until they run down over his face, along the length of his neck and kept going over his-

 _Right, that’s enough._ Bilbo shakes his head, realizing he’d been staring.

“Excuse me,” he says, his voice pathetically low. If the dwarf heard him, he made no indication of it. He tries again, his voice a little higher this time.

“Um, I was-“

“They’re in the bag on the front table,” the dwarf says, not bothering to look up from his work.

“Right.” Bilbo tries not to scamper as he finds his way back into the shop.

 _Of course I don’t need to apologize,_ he tells himself. _If he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care. Nope. No problem at all._

He scours over the cluttered tables before finally catching sight of the cloth bag sitting at the edge of the last row. He notices that it was sitting out in the open, so that almost anyone passing by could just take it. Then again, so was everything else in the shop, so it probably meant nothing. At least he hoped not.

“Thanks again,” he calls out, picking up the bag with shaky hands, then very quickly walks (he most certainly did not _run_ , thank you very much) out of the shop.

Once he returns to the inn, his parents are standing outside with their belongings.

“Well, that was quick,” his father says,“...he didn’t give any trouble, did he?”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Nope, it’s all here,” he says, holding up the bag.

“Let’s see them then,” mother says, looking at the bag in glee.

He loosens the ties and reached into the sack, pulling out a trowel. The dark swirl of the wood almost glows in the morning sun, though not as much as the iron blade.

“Oh my,” she gasps, lifting another tool out of the bag. “They’re beautiful.”

Bilbo nods in agreement. The rich staining of the wood made appear as though it were made of marble, and the gilded embellishments only added to the opulent design. Even his father has nothing to say, as he stares wide eyed at the tools.

“You have to admit it, darling, Petunia and Lugo were right about that smith having talent.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we,” father huffs, but there is little vindictiveness in his voice.

 

— — — — —

 

 A few months later, after they had long settled back into their lives in Bag End, the planting season had come.

Bilbo gently rakes over the dirt with the weeder and sprinkles basil seeds in the lines. A few feet away, his father scoops out the soil beneath the windows to make way for a new bed of flowers. He stops for a moment, examine the scoop in his hand.

“This is a damn good trowel,” he mumbles to himself, before continuing with his planting. Bilbo smiles to himself, silently agreeing as they work on.

 

 

 


End file.
